Imperfection
by Drusilla2
Summary: Spike's POV. "You were perfect, so you painted your own imperfections." My second S/D fic, tell me how I do. Done in my style, however (which means rather dark).


Title: Imperfection  
  
Author: Jaye AKA Drusilla (webmistress@blackroses.com.kg)  
  
Rating: Umm.. R? Better safe than sorry.  
  
Distribution: Wherever, as long as you ask first.  
  
Pairing: Spike/Dawn. My second. (Yay!)  
  
Disclaimer: Blah blah blah, I don't own them, blah blah blah.  
  
Summary: "You were perfect, so you painted your own imperfections."  
  
Author's Note: Here I go with my Spike's POV yet again.   
  
  
  
IMPERFECTION  
  
* * *  
  
  
I thought of you as perfection, you know? How else would you be, you the magickal thing you were, but that very word, carved from magick by sacred utterances? How could they, the monks, have made you anything but a picture of its meaning? Certainly, you looked it. You with your eerie emerald eyes, or maybe blue, or hazel (I could never tell what colour they really were), blushing cheeks and honeyed-milk skin. You were such a contrast beside your sister, and yet always the same. She was curves and sunlight, and you, slimmer, and chocolate. You laughed at me, that time, when I kissed your hair, and declared that it was as sweet.  
  
But then, my tastebuds died long ago, so there is no comparison.  
  
You fooled us all, didn't you? You were the youngest of the gang, the baby, or treated that way, atleast. And you hid the truth, didn't you? You were really older than anything we'd known, anything we were acquainted with. You were wiser than us all, but you concealed it beneath your breast, and then concealed yourself under the shadow and protection of your sister.  
  
You were perfect, so you painted your own imperfections. I ran my fingers over the lush white tissue of your stomach that night, skimming over the upturned flesh that could never heal. Five delicate strokes, five ribbons of white, each crossing with another to form a tangle, a web, of memories. Those were the real gashes, weren't they? Deeper, fragile, far more painful. I paid it no attention, naturally, until as my fingers trickled further downwards, found newer, narrower marks on your thighs, where none but your lovers could ever find them. I looked at you, but you stared back with narrowed eyes, daring me, challenging my offer of question.   
  
I made none, but from your face, I understood. This was your proof, wasn't it? Your self-assurance. You bled like them, you scarred like them, so you must *be* one of them. How wrong you were. I bleed, do I not? I bleed and I scar but I'm not one of them, and can never be, because they will never let me.  
  
You had to make each one slightly different. Did that make you feel better? Safer? One would be a deep, deep streak of pale pink; another, splashes of red and purple; the next, an expanse of blue-black bemishes. I saw older marks, ones that were close to healing, and I knew that you opened them up every night, for the prevention. Words, I could make out. A "B" here, and then an "F", later, a "Y". I understood. You couldn't let it heal, because then maybe you would forget, and the pain was nothing compared to your fear of forgetting. Anything but that.   
  
You offered yourself to me, and so, I took you. I let my true face reveal itself as you pushed your body towards me, volunteering your flesh and your blood, and perhaps, then, your soul. I drank from you gently; you, gasping for breath, and me, always wanting more. Your heart beat, as I could hear plainly, faster and faster, until its strength and momentum lost even me. But there was, of course, a limit to everything, and I withdrew slowly, leaving only two identical scars and a river of distinct crimson, kissing your eyelids closed and your rosing lips shut.  
  
I slept beside you, holding your slim figure against my own, shivering at the strange coolness of you, unnerved at my discovery.  
  
Scared of what I was and what I might become.  
  
And yes, too, terrified because you might think of me as yet another imperfection.  
  
  
//end.  
  
  
  
Please, pleeease, give feedback! God, I live off of it. You wouldn't want a poor writer to starve, would you? 


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